


Woodruff

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Break Up, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Getting Together, Jealous Mycroft, Living Together, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-07-25 03:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16189601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A collection of shorts.Chapter 7: The Case of the Lonely Detective - Lestrade gets divorced. [Sherlock/Lestrade]Chapter 6: Rosé - Lestrade likes puzzling cases. Mycroft likes puzzling people. Sequel to Colourful & Fruity. [Mycroft/Lestrade]Chapter 5: Grouches United - Having something in common does not necessarily mean liking the same things. [Sherlock/Lestrade]





	1. Colourful & Fruity [Mycroft/Lestrade]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade have a meeting, of sorts.

Mycroft glared in the direction of the bar and the background music became even fainter. He didn't expect the same standard that was so effortlessly met in his club in a public house, but, surely, no one liked an obnoxiously thumping beat to accompany their drink of choice.

Further musings were cut short by the arrival of Detective Inspector Lestrade. Windswept hair barely distracted from tired eyes, but the small smile was genuine.

"Sorry for missing you this morning. Got called out."

He placed a familiar envelope on the table. "All signed. Thanks for intervening. I appreciate it."

"No thanks required, I assure you. It was Sherlock's fault entirely."

"Yeah, well. Sherlock doesn't care, if he gets someone else in trouble. He barely cares, if he gets himself in trouble."

"True."

Mycroft took a sip of his whisky, letting it rest on his tongue for a moment before swallowing. Perhaps some company would help drown out the music that seemed to be getting louder again.

"Stay for a drink?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure."

As Lestrade peeled himself out of his coat, Mycroft decided to be helpful.

"What can I get you?"

Lestrade squinted at the bar across the room.

"Something colourful and fruity. Thanks."

Mycroft stared, unsure. As Lestrade's hand drifted to his inside pocket, undoubtedly going for his wallet, Mycroft, thankfully, unfroze.

"Oh, no," he said, slightly alarmed. "My treat."

After an unpleasant interlude at the bar, Mycroft placed Lestrade's glass in front of him.

"Satisfied?"

Lestrade eyed his drink carefully, before closing his lips around the straw.

"Hmm, I wouldn't go that far. It's only got one colour and one fruit." He pointed at the lone orange slice visible between lumps of ice.

"I didn't take you for a cocktail man."

"What're you gonna do, revoke my Big Bad Copper card?"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Inspector. In fact—"

"What is it?"

"Pardon?"

"The cocktail. What is it?"

"You don't know?"

"No. Don't think I've had this one before."

"Well," Mycroft paused to clear his throat. "Is it so important to know?"

"Yeah, I might want to order it again sometime. Come on. I know it's not a Screaming Orgasm. That's white, like, you know, screaming orgasms tend to be."

Lestrade's teeth sank into his lower lip, probably to stop his grin from widening any further. Mycroft sighed, reluctance and anticipation equally strong in his breast.

"I have given you a Slow Comfortable Screw Against a Cold Hard Wall—"

Lestrade's laughter rang through the pub, reaching high and far enough to touch the ceiling and windows and making drab patrons turn around to witness the event. Mycroft waited until the first burst of merriment was dying down.

"With a Kiss," he finished.

"I've changed my mind," Lestrade said at last. "I'm bloody ecstatic."


	2. Inappropriate [Mycroft/Lestrade]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft overhears a conversation between Donovan and Lestrade.

Mycroft noted the closed blinds of Lestrade's office with satisfaction. The good inspector was likely not only alone, but also in need of distraction from a vexatious tower of paperwork. He smoothed down his tie and adjusted the umbrella, hanging over his arm, at a jauntier angle.

He was about to reach for the door handle – knocking had never been his style – when the door cracked open by itself and voices could be heard.

"What, seriously? Just because he's clever? I mean, I get being attracted to intelligence and all. But you've got to admit, he's not cute."

Mycroft's heart rate accelerated. Surely, they couldn't be talking about him. While he was certainly clever, more so than most people, and it took someone special to appreciate it, one should never be boastful.

"Speak for yourself. Just look at him. . ." There was a pause and a sigh. "He's so dapper."

Mycroft swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He should have worn the other suit. The situation clearly required a suit for private meetings, not one out of his spineless either-or category.

"You need to get your eyes checked, boss."

"Get out of my office."

He stepped back hastily as the door opened fully and he came face to face with Sally Donovan. She nodded at him in passing.

"Oh. Hey, Mycroft. I wasn't expecting you."

Lestrade did not look embarrassed at first glance, but Mycroft chose to be magnanimous and not allude to what he had heard, in case the inspector's true feelings were only well hidden.

"Good day, Inspector. You're quite right. I didn't make an appointment."

"No problem. How can I help you?"

The excuse he had prepared in advance vanished as he caught a glimpse of the newly framed photograph on the desk, showing Lestrade in enticing casual wear next to a semi-famous TV actor.

Mycroft sniffed. "I hardly think this is appropriate office decor for a man in your position."

"Don't worry. It's going back in the drawer. I only took it out to show Sally."

Lestrade looked at the picture in his hands, smiling softly. "Met him last week at a book signing. He was in costume and everything."

He had been wrong before. He should have worn an assassination suit. He cleared his throat pointedly.

"Sorry. Where were we?"

Mycroft floundered. "Let's have lunch."

"It's nine in the morning."

"Brunch, then."

"Oh, right. Something you can't talk about here."

Mycroft, impulsively, went with it. "Precisely."

"Give me five minutes, so I can finish this, and I'll meet you outside?"

"Yes, of course."

On the way downstairs, he called his assistant.

"Sir?"

"Find out how much hassle it would be to withdraw a DBE."


	3. Sentimental Creature [Mycroft/Lestrade]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Lestrade on holiday.

The small inn isn't quite Mycroft's style with its remote location and the decided lack of proper input for a Holmes brain. Greg, however, is happy as a clam. The food is scrumptious and plentiful, and the bed makes him dream about clouds and baby ducks.

Afternoon sunshine gives way to heavy rain clouds. They lie in bed, resting from both the morning's excursion and the depletion of the tea tray. Mycroft pretends to read without turning the page.

Greg indulges himself by applying tender kisses to the side of Mycroft's face, his lips travelling from temple to prickly chin to soft earlobe to fragrant neck. Whenever he finishes a turn, he has to start over, because there is always one more spot crying for attention.

Greg does it often, though his lover's face is not always the target. Kisses feel more eloquent to him than his own words. They paint bigger, more elaborate wishes and vows than any symbols or sounds. What are his lips even there for, if not to press his love into Mycroft's skin?

"Sentimental creature."

"Me? Seriously?"

"What else would you call this soppy display of amorous intent?"

"Mycroft, you're in the middle of taking us on a trip that only consists of more or less energetic hikes in the morning, and then lazing away the rest of the day in bed. With bouts of shagging in between. Even though neither of us really has time for it, and our sodding honeymoon is now less than two months away."

"It's our pre-honeymoon."

"That's not a thing."

"It's a thing, if I say so."

Greg eases away from Mycroft, earning himself a glower, and wriggles out of his boxers. Triumphant at last, he chucks them across the room.

Mycroft's hand slides across his bare hip to the swell of his arse. "Sensual creature."


	4. Teeth of Love [Mycroft/Lestrade]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cohabitation and its pitfalls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A proper drabble this time.

Cohabitation is something Mycroft has to relearn; to share those spaces meant for his things and his body. He endeavours to be free with both. 

After his shower, he doesn't hide in his dressing room. Instead, he lays out his pyjamas and lets the towel fall from his waist. As he bends over to pull up the bottoms, he feels the sharp impression of teeth on his left buttock.

He freezes, bemused. "Did you just. . ."

Greg's bespectacled gaze is fixed on the book he's reading in bed. It's very thick and very Russian.

"Don't know what you're talking about, love."


	5. Grouches United [Sherlock/Lestrade]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having something in common does not necessarily mean liking the same things.

Indistinct grumbling and an enticing waft of Sherlock's shower gel accompany Lestrade's return. His hair stands up in strange tufts, but combing fingers are already working to tame them. Despite their earlier activities and a supposedly relaxing bath, Lestrade looks annoyed.

Sherlock contemplates ignoring the obvious, but decides against it. "What now? You've only been back at work for one day. It can't have been that bad."

An unimpressed look is the only response he receives at first. Sherlock puts his book down and easily pokes his big toe into his guest's bare thigh without changing his position. He can't imagine how short people cope with existence.

"God, I hate him so much."

"Ah."

"You know what happened this morning, I came in and he was right there. The first thing I saw. And, of course, he couldn't just let me pass with a nod or something. Oh, no. He felt the need to chat. Wanted to know how my holiday was, and told me that you worked with Dimmock on a case. As if I didn't already know that, stupid twat. Then he asked me _again_ to join his team for a pint after work. I'm running out of polite ways to tell him to piss the hell off."

Sherlock hums along in encouragement. As long as Lestrade's rants are not directed at him, he really doesn't mind.

"Ugh, every time I shake Sally's hand, I know exactly where it's been. And, you know, she's not the first girl in the office he's had an affair with. I don't even want to know how many times I've indirectly touched his dick."

"Quite easy to calculate, actually—"

"If you ever want my hand on _your_ dick again, you're not going to finish that sentence."

"Honesty, as usual, would be a better policy. It's the sham of social etiquette that got you into this mess in the first place. Tell him you don't want to spend any more time with him than absolutely necessary and he will keep his distance. Problem solved."

"You know I can't do that."

"Why? You're his superior. That hardly qualifies as mobbing."

"Welcome to the wonderful world of working with other people. I should have listened to my gran and become a train driver."

"I see. Being professional means pretending to like everyone."

"No, it means pretending not to dislike anyone. Big difference." 

Sherlock huffs, but lifts the duvet in invitation. Damp hair brushes his shoulder as familiar lips distribute circles of prickly warmth on his chest.

"Tut tut, Inspector. Already neglecting your appearance. Whatever will your esteemed colleagues think?"

"Not esteemed, only colleagues."

The words are mumbled into his skin. An unseen smile twitches on Sherlock's lips. His hands move entirely without being ordered to, stroking down the body pressed against his side.

Lestrade groans. "I don't feel like I've been on holiday at all."

"Of course, you don't. You visited your family. I can't imagine anything more stupid. Well, almost. By the way, how is your dear brother?"

"Still a prick."

"I can relate."

The remaining tension slowly drains out of Lestrade's body.

"Let's talk about something else."

Talking, however, proves to be inconvenient for some time. Sherlock is content to enjoy their lingering kisses with much less haste than before. The depth of such simple comfort surprises him frequently. But now, after sixteen days without physical contact, it almost seems a basic necessity.

Later, as he describes in vivid detail the effects of strychnine poisoning on various members of the London police force to his delighted audience of one, Sherlock feels grounded again, as though he's the one who has returned home.


	6. Rosé [Mycroft/Lestrade]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade likes puzzling cases. Mycroft likes puzzling people. Sequel to Colourful & Fruity.

"But how did it enter his system? I'm assuming your lot checked everything."

"They did. Everything edible and drinkable. No trace of the poison in his medication or cosmetics, either."

"Are we sure it wasn't simply injected or got in through skin contact? I mean, if you know what you're doing, you could hide a lot on a human body. Hairy places, between toes, stuff like that."

Mycroft gave him a look.

"Of course, you're sure. Damn. And not a chocolate box in sight." Lestrade grimaced and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry. It's just so, you know." He paused, gesturing vaguely. "I keep having to remind myself that they're real people. I'm usually good with that. But this is too much, kind of. You know what I mean? You've got this tight-fisted old geezer, a wife who despised him, children in money trouble regularly threatened with disinheritance, and, of course, they're all under the same roof with plenty of motive and opportunity, when he dies in the most clichéd way possible. It's like it comes—"

"Straight out of a novel, indeed. Which is why we need to know."

"You want one of the family to have done it, don't you?"

That calm, open face looking at him without anger or judgement. 

"Very observant of you... To own the truth, I do. If it turns out that he was killed by outside forces instead, it would signify much greater trouble in the grand scheme of things. However that may be, I think a break is in order. I took the liberty of ordering food, which should arrive shortly, unless you're not hungry."

"Oh, I can definitely eat. A house or a horse, whatever you got."

"A glass of wine, perhaps, while we wait? I'm sure, it's been a long week for both of us."

"Sure. Not red, though."

"Pardon?"

"I don't like red wine. Tastes like arse."

Mycroft blinked. 

"I like the pink stuff, if you have a bottle."

"Pink... stuff?"

Lestrade suppressed a smile. "Rosé wine, Mycroft. I'm a stout traditionalist as you can see. Are you all right?"

"Certainly. Excuse me, I'll... I'll see what I can find."

Surprisingly enough, he did locate a bottle in the least back-friendly slot of his wine rack. A long ignored gift from a terrible great-aunt. Back upstairs, he found that the food had been delivered and payed for in his absence.

"Good timing. The food's here."

"I will reimburse you after dinner."

"It's fine. I'm a management level police officer, not a church mouse. You can return the favour next time."

They ate and talked, easily avoiding both the case and Sherlock. Mycroft felt no impatience to return to work. Sitting with Lestrade was quite intriguing enough. To see the man in shirtsleeves with his socked feet, toes curling now and then, and that ridiculous wine in his hand was more pleasing than expected. A fading tan next to a rose, who would have thought?

"I love this colour."

"Oh?"

"Yup. Always wanted a suit in this exact shade. You know, not just a tie or something. The whole thing, jacket, trousers. Not sure about the shirt, might be overkill. And not this polyester crap either. A nice suit, with waistcoat and a pocket square. And, trust me, twenty years ago – or make that twenty-five – I could've pulled it off, too. You can't tell right now, but I used to be quite the looker when I was young."

"You never acquired one?"

"No, I'm not going to waste money on a suit that's never worn."

"I understand. Such attire would be unsuitable for either of our work environments."

"Do you have a suit like that? I mean something more adventurous for your days off?"

"Something on the level of a rosé wine coloured suit? I'm afraid not."

"Are you sure?"

"Excuse me?"

"I'd say some of your safe for work ties are pretty out there."

"Really, Inspector."

"You know how you dress, Mycroft. Don't start pretending with me."

"Are you finished eating? In that case, I'll just clear this away, shall I?"

It was too late to keep his guest any longer for work that was not particularly urgent. He hovered reluctantly as Lestrade stretched the kinks out of his back and put his shoes back on.

"All right, then. Can I have the file now?"

"File?"

"The bits of the case file that are cleared for little old me to take out of your house and into mine. I want to keep looking at it over the weekend, might get an idea or two."

"That is not necessary. I'm grateful you've sacrificed your evening for me, but I certainly don't expect to have any claim on your weekend."

"It's no trouble. I want to."

The outstretched, open hand was too tough a demand to be politely resisted. In the end, Lestrade left with his version of the case file and without any of Mycroft's money in his pocket.

 

[Saturday, 7:02]  
 **Found something that's worth looking into. Sending you an email. Can you make sure it doesn't bounce back? Lestrade**

[Saturday, 7:03]  
 **Hope I didn't wake you. Had an epiphany in the shower. Going back to bed now. Have a nice weekend.**


	7. The Case of the Lonely Detective [Sherlock/Lestrade]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade gets divorced.

John Watson considers himself a smart man. Not brilliant, not a genius, but smart. He is practical and resourceful. He knows what's what. It takes a strong man to stand next to Sherlock Holmes and still feel smart.

Finding Greg Lestrade in their flat is nothing new. If he's honest, Sherlock won't be the only one grateful for a new case. They've had a couple of weeks with nothing on, and the routine work at the surgery isn't really cutting it at the moment.

Sherlock is holding his violin, looking annoyed. "I don't see why you're in such a rush all of a sudden."

"We've been through this. It's for the best. For both of us."

"That remains to be seen."

Sherlock turns his back on Lestrade to fiddle with several sheets of music from his music stand. They're heavily scribbled on.

"You don't love me, Sherlock."

"What has love got to do with it?"

Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose, but his smile is oddly fond. "That's why we're getting a divorce. Now, are you going to be difficult, or are you going to stick to what we've agreed?"

"I'm never difficult and I shan't start now."

"Yeah, right. I have no clue, where I got that idea. Anyway. Thank you. Come here."

They hug. Not in the way most people would hug. Lestrade is clearly the one who initiates it and does all the heavy lifting. Sherlock is nevertheless an active participant. Lestrade steps away first.

"All right. Take care of yourself. I mean it. I'll call, when I've got a case for you."

John realizes with a start that he has been standing rooted to the spot, since he came home. In a sudden move he will later deny to have been caused by panic, he advances to the kitchen and busies himself with filling the kettle. The responses to his shouted offer of tea are drowned out by the running water.

". . . impossible. Jesus," Lestrade says, sounding amused, as John closes the tap. "You've got to stop telling people you're married to your work. Well, I guess you won't have to anymore. But seriously, for the next one."

Despite straining his ears, he can't make out Sherlock's reply.

"Right, then. Gotta run. Bye, John."

John makes some incoherent noise and then Lestrade is gone. His feet carry him back to the living room without conscious thought. He wants to say something. He wants to say many things, frankly, but for a little while he only stares.

Sherlock sighs deeply. "You have questions."

Eventually, there are actual words tumbling out John's mouth. "How did this even happen?"

"Lestrade was a very lonely man when we met."

John nods, as if that answer makes anything any clearer. It's not what he meant. He didn't mean, how did this happen to Lestrade. He meant, how did this happen to you, of all people.

"Right. S-so. . . so all those times, when you suddenly took off and disappeared for days. . . you were with him? With Lestrade. Your husband."

"Obviously."

"And you. . . you spent time with him and did stuff with him that married people do?"

"Yes, as you've heard, we were, in fact, married. We weren't pretending for a case." 

"So, you and him. . . you. . ."

"If you require technical details, I can provide you with a comprehensive list of sources. Some of them quite graphic, if necessary."

"I know how two guys have sex, thank you."

"You seem confused."

"I'm not. . . no, not confused. No."

"Very well. Is that all?"

It's not all, not even close. It's barely the tip of the iceberg, but John knows when a conversation with Sherlock reaches the point of futility.

"Are you all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Sherlock gives him a fake smile, puts the violin under his chin with great care and starts playing.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism, constructive or otherwise, is always welcome.


End file.
